Let Me Wring Your Heart
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: "And let me wring your heart: for so I shall,/ If it be made of penetrable stuff . . ." Finn sets out to prove that Rachel lied. A DWE.


**Title:** Let Me Wring Your Heart**  
Author:** Dream Writer 4 Life**  
Rating:** PG-13. Have I gone soft?**  
Genre:** my patented hangst: humor/angst**  
Archived:** FFN, my site, LJ-ish. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!  
'**Shippers' Paradise:** Vive la Finchel!**  
Spoilers/Timeline:** Up to "Bad Reputation;" takes place over the time periods covered in "Power of Madonna" and "Bad Reputation"**  
Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait, no it's not! Keep reading!**  
Summary:** "And let me wring your heart: for so I shall,/ If it be made of penetrable stuff . . ." Finn sets out to prove that Rachel lied. A DWE.**  
Suggested Soundtrack:** "Napoleon Says" by Phoenix, "Hey Kids" by Jet, "I'll Cover You" from the _Rent_ soundtrack (lyrics featured), "So Damn Clever" by Plain White T's, "My Guardian Angel" by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus (lyrics featured), "Letters from the Sky" by Civil Twilight, and "Beyond the Sun" by Shinedown. (What? It's a long story!)**  
Author's Note:** My Case for the Jackass Side of Finn Hudson goes thusly. Contention One: he can be overly competitive. Exhibit A: the boys versus girls bits in "Vitamin-D" and ensuing F-Rod/A-Rach conversations. Contention Two: he can be self-centered and insensitive. Exhibit B: Finn's well-deserved dressing down in "Home." Conclusion: I have a basis for this fic. Also, the title, summary, and shape of the plot reference Shakespeare's play _Hamlet_. I had a ton of fun slipping in references to the play. In a second read-through, see how many you can spot! [/geekiness] Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Let Me Wring Your Heart

"_And let me wring your heart: for so I shall,/ If it be made of penetrable stuff . . ."_

She lied to him.

Looked him straight in the face _and then lied._

Even after their discussion about lying earlier in the week.

The hell!

Now, Finn might not have been the sharpest tool in the box (he didn't think he was a tool at all), or the quickest . . . whatever in the . . . whatever, but since the whole BabyGate drama, he'd picked up a thing or two about how to figure out when someone wasn't telling the truth. Rachel, rather annoyingly without fail, always moved when she spoke: her head bobbed up/down/back/forth, she shrugged her shoulders in time and according to what she was saying. Her biological mom must have been Italian, because she always used her hands to talk. And this time, she didn't. She suppressed her movements: she stood straight up like she had a steel rod for a spine, and her chin merely angled up so she could look into his eyes when _she lied._

Come to think of it, maybe he just became more attune to _Rachel_ after BabyGate.

Because of this massive lie, Finn felt funny, like he'd eaten an entire extra-large Big Momma's burrito with hot sauce too quickly. Conflicted! That's it! He felt conflicted. Part of him was really super happy that she hadn't slept with Jesse, somewhat because he wanted nothing better than to tap dance on Jesse's head (learn to tap dance, _then_ on his head), but mostly because Finn still thought of Rachel as his, Finn's. The thought of Jesse getting anywhere near an unclothed Rachel made him want to drop-kick puppies or something. So he rejoiced in the truth revealed by the lie.

Ah, but there was the rub. ( . . . Whoa. He must have paid attention in English at some point.) She had still lied to him. She'd lied to him even after she had promised not to lie to him ever again. That hurt his heart like hell.

He thought of calling her on it right away: jabbing his finger at her nose and screaming, "LIAR!" like they did in those cop shows on TV. He even opened his mouth, but some tiny voice that sounded oddly familiar told him to cool his heels, control the anger, take some time to actually think this through. So he balled his hands into tightly-coiled fists behind the piano, and then shoved them into his pockets when Mr. Schue called the club to order.

Finn didn't even pretend to pay attention during the quick free period meeting. He sat apart from the rest, fists still balled (uncomfortably) in his pockets, the voice in his head advising against both speaking and sudden moves. Rachel and Jesse the Tool clearly did not sleep together. So why did she want everyone (read: Finn) to believe they had? To purposely cause him pain? To prove to both of them that she had moved on?

Holy crap.

That was it.

She _hadn't_ moved on!

The realization made him sit up straighter, the edge of his pockets digging into his wrists and making them hurt so much that he removed his hands. Rachel was trying to make him jealous! Well, it had certainly worked, but her lie had a second, probably unforeseen effect: it strengthened his resolve to win her back. And to do that, he needed to prove that she had lied. And to do that, he needed to get into her pants.

And to do that . . .

"Finn, that was the second bell. You're going to be late for class." Mr. Schue's voice finally pulled him from his thoughts. He was still seated in the back corner of the choir room, but only he and the Glee director remained. Finn shook his head of thinking-too-hard cobwebs and stared at Mr. Schue non-comprehendingly. The latter nodded towards the door. "Class. Go. Now."

"Oh. Right. 'Kay. Thanks." Finn stood abruptly, clumsily catching a sheaf of sheet music that had been placed on his lap, and shoved it into his backpack as he trotted out the door towards biology.

He had some major planning to do. 

* * *

While he trusted his mad-style people-analyzing skills, he knew he would need more evidence to fully flesh out his Virgin Rachel hypothesis.

The first thing he had ever learned about sex was that girls were supposed to walk funny afterwards, either because she'd done it a lot of times and was sore, or because she held herself with confidence after giving a part of herself to someone else. At least, according to one of his mom's thoroughly dog-eared dime store romance novels, which had been _the_ authority on sex up until Puck introduced him to grainy images on hijacked Skinemax. But since he didn't think Rachel would enjoy being compared to a porn star, and his mom's books were written _for_ women, he decided to include it as hard evidence.

The next day at school, he observed her every chance he got: how Rachel stood, walked, danced. He didn't know what exactly he was looking for, but anything out of the ordinary would go down on the list against his theory. He arrived at school extra early so he could dawdle at his locker while she gathered her belongings for the day. As she passed him to head to her own locker, she spared him a pleasantly surprised glance, and even seemed about to say something before she snapped her lips together, and _God_ she was sexy when she pouted like that—

Focus, Hudson! Eyes on the prize!

His gaze slipped to her hips, and he groaned audibly. She wore his favorite skirt, the red plaid one that was all folded and stuff and bounced over her ass when she walked quickly. He pressed closer to the lockers and dropped his head to rest against the cold metal. This was going to be harder (gah!) than he thought. Resting his backpack on the metal lip, he surreptitiously peered through the air slats near the top of the locker. She had turned profile, pulling books from her rolling backpack and organizing them carefully. He couldn't hear her over the group of kids apparently playing a pick-up game of basketball around the corner, but she bobbed her head like she was humming. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, calves encased by hot pink knee socks.

When she stood on tip-toe to reach a top shelf, Finn peeked his eyes over the top of the locker door: to get a better, more complete, analytical analysis! But Rachel huffed and hung her head for a moment before finally extracting a book and settling onto her penny loafers' heels.

His stomach rumbled. If he knew this stakeout would be this time-consuming, he would have brought a second breakfast. Or popcorn. Mmm. Butter . . .

Her hand reached up to adjust her star-shaped mirror, and he ducked into his locker again, making a show of pulling out his half-assed homework and trying to figure out a spot where he wouldn't forget it. But soon (probably too quickly), he risked a glance through the slats again. She had pulled her hair to one side, brushing it with possibly the tiniest Barbie-sized brush he had ever seen.

No hickies.

That tiny but oddly familiar voice whispered that there was no way Jesse had sex with her and didn'tmake out with her neck, too.

Finn scribbled this piece of evidence in the nearest notebook and poked his head back over the door just in time to see her bend over and slide something into her backpack.

"Finn, stop staring at me. Or at least stop making it obvious. You're really starting to creep me out."

He retracted his head so quickly and awkwardly that he simultaneously scraped his nose on a jagged piece of metal and banged his temple against the wall. His curse echoed back to him from the depths of his locker, and he wished he could crawl inside and chase it. Deciding to roll with it, he emerged and closed the door, leaning against the bank of lockers, smiling what he hoped was a charming grin. "Oh, hey, Rach. Didn't see you there. Looked right over you." Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head, but he hurried on before she could voice the hole in his logic. "You coming to rehearsal today after school?"

He shoulders rounded, and she speared him with annoyance. "You really weren't listening at the meeting yesterday, were you." Statement, not a question. "Rehearsal today is boys-only. And from what Mr. Schuester said, you guys are in desperate need of personal vocal coaching from our director. In fact, I have offered multiple times to give Mr. Schuester a list of the top five male vocal coaches within a fifteen-mile radius, personally researched and vetted by yours truly, so as to boost the vocal quality of our male teammates, but for some reason, he has turned up his nose at me every time—"

Finn stopped listening at that point and took the opportunity to observe her head-on. She still tilted her chin to look him in the eye, but every facial muscle moved and glided in a symphonic symphony of movement. Her back was straight, but her shoulders heaved in time with her words. And her bordering on _Psycho_ eyes — there was the Rachel Berry he had been missing of late. He let a soft, lop-sided smile slide onto his lips, and her eyebrows drew together.

"Are you even listening to me anymore, Finn? Finn! If you concoct a coherent sentence in the next five seconds, I'll let you see my breasts."

"Br — what — huh — who — Delaware?"

"That's what I thought." Rachel's fists dug into her hips as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, which only distracted him with thoughts of how utterly suckable her neck looked. "I think you've gone 'round the bend, and not in the bizarrely attractive Sweeny Todd way; in the 'there's something rotten in the state of Denmark' way." With that, she turned on her heel, grabbed books from her locker, slammed the door, and powered down the hallway without a second glance in his direction.

Three things he took away from this encounter.

One, he _needed_ better spy skills.

Two, why the heck was Rachel talking about Africa?

Three (and here he tilted his head to examine her diva fit-in-progress), she totally did not sleep with Jesse.

* * *

After school ended (and after the Glee rehearsal he almost forgot about _again_), Finn raced home and watched every spy movie he could lay his hands on. He jotted down notes in the notebook he had used that morning, which he found out was his English notebook when he began doodling during said class, and soon filled more pages with plans for Operation De-Toolify Rachel than notes for class.

. . .

He was working on the title, okay?

When his mom shut the lights off on him after an evening of sending him quizzical looks from the kitchen table, he paused _Agent Cody Banks_ and sighed. Even Frankie Muniz could get this stuff more right than he could! There was no way he could even be the James Bond type: he literally did not know the meaning of 'suave;' he felt uncomfortable in a tux; and the closest thing he had to Q had been Puck, but Puck was even dumber than Finn about stealthy stuff. And they still weren't speaking.

He had turned off _Alias_ after an episode and chalked that up as a lost cause; he kept getting distracted by Jennifer Garner's boobs.

Matt Damon in the Bourne series probably fit him the best, but the dude still beat him in the brains department by, like, five hundred IQ points. But the little things jumped out at him: being quiet, letting others reveal themselves, being observant of even the smallest details (on the right track; score!), hiding his whole body and not just his torso. He would have to up his game a bit, but he could do it. The truth was worth it.

With a rough game plan mapped out, he slept a bit lighter.

Part One of Operation Truth Digger-Upper (ugh, draft two still sucked) commenced the next day: Finn had to become BFFs with Rachel again. He needed to gain her trust in order to enact Part Two and, ultimately, to accomplish his goal of proving she'd lied. (The voice fist-bumped him, and then Finn wonder when this voice acquired a body.) The quickest way to Rachel's heart was sharing her interests: music and her, both of which he already shared, but he needed to go completely off the deep end.

He needed charm. And he needed it five minutes ago.

The next morning before school passed without incident, mostly because he arrived at his normal time (two minutes before the first bell rang), and Rachel had already powered off to the choir room, where she spent most of her non-class time. And where he would be joining her during lunch.

The sheet music burned a hole in his Operation Pants-Get-Into (better, but not there yet) notebook, which had begun accompanying him to every class so he could jot down random ideas that popped into his head when he wasn't listening. This song, while not some totally cheesebucket declaration of love, would definitely grab both her interest and her attention. He hummed his part in between classes to rehearse, making sure everyone else's noise drowned out his own. So as to beat her to the choir room, he scarfed his lunch down during his daily bathroom break in algebra. He didn't want anything disrupting his plan.

Lunch finally came around, and he practically sprinted to the choir room, hoping to _God_ that Schue would be in the teachers' lounge and not at his desk like a creeper. He skidded into the room to find it empty, and he fist-bumped the air before bee-lining to the piano bench, arranging the sheet music on the stand. He had just settled himself on the bench when Rachel fluttered in, heading straight toward her usual seat in the front row with a song on her plump lips. Only when she had set up a music stand in front of her like a table and primly spread a pink linen napkin over her lap did she notice him.

"Finn!" Her voice sounded suspiciously squeaky, and he practically heard her collect herself. "What are you doing here?"

Shrugging, he pretended to keep perusing music.

She leaned toward him as much as she could without toppling from her chair. "What are you reading?"

Turned a page. "Songs, songs, songs."

And inch closer now. "Which songs? About what?"

His mouth did a funny quirk thing all on its own. "Yesterday at rehearsal, Mr. Schue hinted that he'd like to see another duet for Regionals. So, as co-captain, I took it up on myself to start looking." He locked eyes with her across the room. "For us."

Closer still, and the look on her face could have only been classified as pure fanatical longing. "And did you find any?"

He broke their gaze and returned to the stack on the piano (which was actually Spanish tests that Schue had apparently left; half of him was looking for his own). "I took the liberty of watching your MySpace videos to get and idea of your rep-what you like to sing, and I-I went from there." He risked a glance at Rachel again, and she positively beamed at him.

"_All_ of them?"

"All of them."

When she left her seat, she miraculously landed on her feet instead of her face and appeared at his side on the bench in the space of a blink. "So? Have you narrowed down a list from my vast repertoire — that was the word you were looking for, by the way — for us to prepare for the club? Do you need me to arrange? Choreograph?"

Hook, line, and sinker. He couldn't keep a shit-eating grin from his face as he stopped thumbing. He had no idea where all this was coming from, but the voice told him to keep going; Crunchy Toast Land wasn't out of reach yet. Not a little part of his ego swelled as he said, "I already arranged it myself." Now to take it to the next level. He shifted on the bench to face her, ducking his head. "But I don't know how to play the piano part."

If possible, her spine straightened further, and she scooted towards him so that his knee brushed her thigh; he stiffened in more ways than one. He tried not to let on, though (or look down her shirt), as she leaned closer to read the sheet music. Her eyebrow quirked. "So you think I'm a cross-dressing street musician who kills dogs, and you're a black, gay philosophy professor from MIT?"

"If Kurt can sing 'Defying Gravity,' you can be a cross-dresser, and I can be a professor."

She ducked her head, but he still heard her muffled giggle, and he had to grip the edge of the piano to keep his arm from wrapping around her waist. "While I have never seriously desired to play any of the roles, and I couldn't call myself a die-hard _RENT_-head, it has won multiple Tony Awards, and therefore all of the songs are fully entrenched in my catalogue. And the way you have it arranged, Collins's part will stretch your vocal abilities. Admirable and ambitious choice." She paused in her perusal and peered at him from under her lashes. "But I'm not sure this is a good idea, Finn. I-I have a boyfriend n-now—"

"And that means you can't sing with anyone else anymore?" Time for the big guns: puppy dog eyes. "We're still friends, aren't we, Rach? Plus, it's just one song; what could happen?"

Still her hands didn't move from her lap. "But it's not a Madonna song; we can't use it—"

"So we'll wait another week, when Mr. Schue isn't about really old popstar MILFs. Too much practice never hurt anyone." Feeling that Rachel was still teetering on the brink of a decision, he made it for her. He tapped a key on the synthesizer behind the piano's music stand, and a fake drumbeat blared at them. Lifting the corner of his mouth in a half-grin, he pleaded, "Come on? For the team? For me?"

She searched his face a moment longer, staring into his eyes as if trying to read the brain behind it. (He told the voice to shut up and quickly thought of puppies instead of how awesomely his plan was working.) Finally, she huffed a resigned sigh and stroked her fingers over the keys. "Fine. But this is going to be a real rehearsal; no funny business."

And they sang together for the first time in entirely too long. It took them a good many tries to hammer out the harmonies — Finn had forgotten that she wasn't a tenor; hey he was new to this arranging/reading music thing! — and she corrected him more than once when his voice went flat on the super low notes.

But when they sang, _"I've longed to discover something as true as this is,"_ she gazed up at him with this look of pure, unfiltered adoration, and he knew she wasn't acting or lying this time. None of her thousand sweet kisses would go to Jesse — or anyone else, if he had anything to say about it. More proof that she could not have possibly slept with her boyfriend.

She definitely lied.

She wasn't over Finn, either.

And he would exploit that to his fullest advantage.

They spent as much time together as they did when he was still dating Quinn: singing, laughing, being best friends. He would hold doors; she would use big words and long sentences. He felt her trust in him returned bit by bit, jagged pieces that fit together to make a smooth whole. But it only acted as a temporary balm: he didn't want to hold back his emotions (or his body) around her anymore.

He wanted all of her.

And all of her he would have.

* * *

Jesse St. Tool transferred.

To McKinley.

'To be with Rachel.'

Gag.

Also, did the world really hate him that much? Couldn't someone just punch him in the face and get it over with instead of this drawn-out, thumbnail-ripping torture? No? Fan-flipping-tastic.

He had spent, like, a whole night listening to Madonna songs at the library (did you know they don't have just books there?) and then arranging one for the whole Glee club plus an adult choir only to have his lead-ship stolen out from under him. Now he was treated to hourly doses of way-too-much-tongue PDA from Rachel and The Tool while suffering the horribly pitying stares from Mercedes, Tina, and Artie; Kurt just kind of picked at his nails.

Seriously. That punch in the face would be just fine.

Finn couldn't spend every free moment courting Rachel's favor anymore; her 'boyfriend' met her before school, walked her to class, ate lunch with her, and gave her a lift home. The best Finn could hope for were stolen moments in Spanish and text conversations at night. He needed to prove she really wanted _Finn_. Which would be a lot harder now that he couldn't be around her.

The voice urged him not to retreat: he just needed to man up, find his balls, and get to work. Sure, this project now required more attention and effort, but the payoff would be _like whoa_. (Finn began to wonder just why that voice — and its phrases — sounded so familiar.) So with single minded intensity hitherto unknown to Finn, he concentrated his entire being on luring Rachel out of her comfortable, constructed world to live with him in his reality. His gut burned with his need to have Rachel by his side, in his arms, underneath him. He only slept perchance to dream of her. This goal became his force, his focus, his life.

(Where he found time to pay attention in English was anyone's guess.)

He waited for the perfect moment. Through the haze of his obsession, he understood that to make a move at the wrong time would be disastrous, most likely resulting in Rachel forever breaking off her friendship with Finn and riding off into the sunset with Jesse on a white horse that mysteriously appeared from nowhere. Timing became critical in his plan.

So when Mr. Schue set them the bad reputation assignment, he began scouring his mom's old vinyls and his newfound treasure trove, the library, and came up with Meatloaf's classic "I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)" — clearly his choice — or "My Heart Will Go On" for Rachel. He'd had to pay through the nose for the second one, but it would be worth it to see her face when presented with a Celine Dion song and then hear her belt notes again on the stage next to _him_.

He bought a pink folder, plastered it with differently-colored stars (a lot came in a pack, okay), and tucked the sheet music inside carefully.

But then Rachel threw him a curve ball. She texted him the next morning, saying to meet by the gates to the football field before school. He bolted down his breakfast and streaked out the door without giving his mom enough time to even question his rush. This could have been it. Maybe she finally broke it off with Jesse. He clutched the folder painfully. The truth shall—

"I need your help with my assignment this week." She hadn't even walked all the way up to him yet, and his grip on his hope slackened. She powered on without waiting for a response. "It's a video, and it's going to be so professional that I think I'm going to post it on both MySpace _and_ YouTube so I can be more accessible to the masses—"

"Why did you want to meet out here?"

Biting her lip, her gaze slipped to somewhere over his shoulder. "So that Jesse wouldn't know I'd asked for your help." He considered her. It wasn't a lie. Something within him sparked. "I know you probably have your own song lined up already, and I'm sure it will be a wonderful candidate for Regionals—"

He pounced. "I'll do it. Where do you want to meet?"

She laid her own trap, he thought as she flounced away towards the school. This dance was the twirl wherein he'd catch the conscience of the girl.

* * *

Filming the music video would have been a lot more fun if Finn had not been obsessing over his every move and Rachel's every look. "Run, Joey, Run" really was an atrocious song, but pretending to be a tragic bad-ass who slept with Rachel fit right up his alley. Plus, he and Rachel remained practically attached at the hip for a whole half a day, so who was he to complain? Whenever Belinda Fitzpatrick filmed him in a solo scene, he would stare over the Asian girl's shoulder to Rachel and send her sex eyes so potent she would inevitably clutch her water bottle hard enough to crinkle it. He grinned and added an extra hip-thrust after the third bottle she'd ruined.

He totally had her in the bag, the voice asserted. Over the past couple weeks, Finn had reminded her just why she liked/stalked him in the first place. And she chose _him_ to star in her video! What else did he have to do? Case closed. Finn could hear the cocky smirk in the voice's . . . voice.

This video would show everyone — Jesse, Rachel, Kurt — that Finn and Rachel belonged together forever. That Rachel and Jesse could have never slept together in the first place. That Rachel wanted Finn the whole time.

When Rachel debuted it at the Glee meeting during free period, he sat in the front row a respectable distance away from Rachel so as not to ruin the big reveal, and he somehow resisted pulling out a bag of popcorn in preparation for the fireworks about to begin.

Then his world imploded.

Puck? _PUCK?_ Where the hell did _he_ fit in this drama? Finn shot a confused glance at Rachel, eyebrows drawn.

And Jesse. _What. The. Fuck._ She had said she didn't want Jesse to know! Now he turned towards her, wondering where he, Finn, appeared in this joke of a video.

Finn finally flashed on the screen, and he saw himself reflected in Jesse's burning eyes. Just like him, Finn figured that Jesse could forgive Puck's role in this farce, but a rival's inclusion crossed the line to unforgivable.

The voice thrust its non-existent hand in the air and its nose in Finn's ear. Would Jesse's ego be bruised enough to break up with her? The way Jesse slumped in his seat, arms poutily folded over his chest and glaring poison darts at his girlfriend, Finn thought it could be a safe bet. Maybe if he forced the wedge even further, they would split completely. Then she could admit she lied, then spread her legs, and finally they could be together like both of them always wanted.

Fog rolled over the screen and 2D Rachel winked behind the _'fin,'_ and 3D Rachel clapped maniacally, jarring Finn back to the choir room. With one last glance at a positively steaming Jesse, Finn schooled his face and bundled together what acting chops and bones and muscles his body possessed. His chair nearly flew over backwards as he stood up. "This is garbage! How could you do this to us? Is your reputation more important than your relationships?" Her shuddering exhale told him he'd hit at least one of his marks, and he stalked out of the room, only unleashing a smirk when he hit the hallway and headed for the doors to the cafeteria. Pausing around the nearest corner next to a water fountain (Matt Damon always had an alibi), he heard Jesse burst from the room, cursing and fuming at full volume. Finn waited until he passed and then fist pumped the air.

Thus the end had begun.

Finn barely saw Rachel at all for the rest of the day; even in Spanish, their only shared class, she seemed to shrink into her desk and disappear into the hard plastic seat. She bolted out of the room immediately after the bell rang, but he caught up to her at their bank of lockers and glimpsed her face. No tears stained her cheeks, and red did not color the whites of her eyes, but her face stretched like a blank void between the twin curtains of her hair. She stared straight forward with eyes as dull as matte paint, and her knuckles blanched as she clutched her books protectively to her chest. He frowned, and his stomach did a weird lurching thing as she passed him without a sound. She looked . . . small. He knew she could practically fit in his pocket physically, but her personality filled rooms, gave the illusion that she stood five inches taller.

Now, as Finn craned his neck down the hall after her, the crowd completely swallowed her whole.

He felt a tug at his gut and a tingling in the back of his brain. His throat swelled, and his pulse throbbed in his ears. As the river of teenagers swept her out to sea, he gripped the edge of his locker door, until the metal sliced into his thumb. And just for a moment he felt guilty, more guilty and dirty than he had ever felt in his life until this point. Didn't Rachel deserve so much better than all of this, than him? Could he really go through with Operation Out-Rat and De-Pant? What would this ultimately cost him?

But just as quickly as the moment came, it went, leaving in its wake a gnawing hunger to prove the truth and realign everything to the way it should be. The voice concurred. He had already come too far to abandon ship now. He nodded to himself. The pieces were already in motion; he would let them play out. The show must go on.

The rest of the school day passed without any Rachel or The Tool sightings, but he did see a lot of his Glee friends gathered in tightly-spun circles between classes, heads bent and mouths working furiously. They stopped when he approached, and the hallways were too crowded and noisy to even catch snip-its of the gossip.

No matter. He found out soon enough.

After school, behind the still ill-concealment of his locker, he watched as Jesse broke up with Rachel in a crowded hallway full of screaming, joking people who hated her. He watched as she struggled to explain, her eyes showering tears; watched as Jesse coolly set her down without a blink; watched as she gave up her defense and deflated. Jesse looked her up and down once, a peculiar look on his face, and continued down the corridor with the same bounce in his step as before. Rachel didn't even touch her locker; instead, she headed in the opposite direction as Jesse, towards the auditorium.

Finn closed his own locker with a click only he could hear. After basketball practice, he would close the deal.

Though his body went through the drills, his brain raced upstairs, around corners, through the auditorium doors, and up on stage to her. Rachel's defeated eyes had shaken his resolve yet again, but he pushed away the cold feet. He would be her shoulder to cry on. And anyway, this was what they both wanted, right? He just needed to blast away the last wall between them: her supposed de-virginization at the hands (or other . . . ew) of The Tool. With that information on the table, they could finally be together.

So he rushed to the locker rooms, ran through the showers, slapped on clothes, and sprinted to the only place he knew Rachel ever really felt accepted.

The backstage doors didn't vibrate with music, and he thought that an ominous sign. Edging apart the heavy metal, he barely caught the tinny strains of a waltz-like song he found vaguely familiar. Before he could catch more than a guitar riff, though, he heard a mangled sigh/sob, and Rachel leapt to stage right and into his line of sight towards the Glee club iPod dock and restarted the song. While her back was turned, he slipped inside, easing the door closed behind him, and hid behind one of the heavy velvet curtains. She turned and strode back toward center stage with her chin lifted defiantly, even though the harsh lights glittered on fresh tear tracks. As the same guitar riff blasted through the tiny speakers, her left arm arced in front of her at chest height while her right posed in the air: a waltz.

And then she started to sing.

He'd heard her play parts, and this heartbreak was all her own. Her voice easily overpowered the iPod, and though the choreography was rough and simple, he grinned softly as she spun, her hair swinging as she danced with herself across the stage. As the electric guitar and then a full rock band joined in, so did he, stepping directly into her empty arms and belting, _"Use me as you will, pull my strings just for a thrill,"_ and surprising her so greatly she jumped six inches. Though his feet kept sufficient time, they still shuffled, and Rachel ended up leading them around the stage until the music began to fade, and she drifted from his grasp.

As the song repeated, she raced over to pause it, and peered warily at him from the opposite side of the stage. "When did you learn to dance like that? In fact, when did you learn to dance?"

He rolled his eyes at her (unintentional) insult and scuffed the floor with his shoe. "My mom 'rediscovered' her vinyls when I was ten, and she tried to teach me how to do all these crazy dances like jitterbug and the mashed turnips or something. Clearly I lost most of it, but I think the waltz stuck because it's all movement: you don't have to think too much about what's coming next." She ducked her head and imitated his movement. He shoved his hands in his pockets and groped for a way to turn the conversation. "That didn't sound like a show tune."

Her head stayed ground-ward. "After school, I went to the library and Googled 'song' plus 'angst' plus 'rock' plus 'angel.' This was the only result."

A lifted eyebrow. "'Angel'?"

Shrug. "Even though I wanted it to be as different as possible, I still needed it to be a little bit me." She tossed her head and, seeming to make a decision, squared her shoulders and locked eyes with him across the expanse. "I'm assuming you've already heard that Jesse and I are no longer the formidable Glee couple the club has come to love and revere. No doubt you've come to tap dance on our relationship's early grave. Or rub salt on the exposed, open wound of my soul."

He shook his head in earnest and took a step back. "No, Rach, of course not." He hadn't; he just wanted to capitalize on it and get with her.

She plowed on as if she hadn't heard him, advancing slowly. "And I would appreciate if you would refrain from patronizing me. I've got enough from _him_; I don't need it from you, too."

There may have been some pronouns in there, but other that that . . . "I don't—"

She now glared at him from center stage while he lurked in the shadows off stage left. "No I-told-you-so dances; no songs about how you _knew_ Jesse and I would never work out; nothing resembling gloating of any kind. I know you said you reserved the right to rub it in my face when I was hoisted on my own petard, but please—" her voice cracked "—just _don't_." More to herself, she added, "This was why I never made friends: they hurt too much."

Seeing her retreat into herself again, Finn tried to step back into the light towards her, his conscience overshadowing the voice for a moment, but her head snapped up at his slight movement. "So, Finn Hudson, let me push you away before you get a chance to do it to me. Your words after my video were telling: you have absolutely no idea what it's like to _not_ be popular. You were average for maybe five seconds after the news about Quinn's pregnancy broke, and you freaked so much, you wore sunglasses inside. For the sake of your popularity, you _dumped_ me — the only girl besides your mom to have ever liked you for who you really are. And those were just threats to your rep. You can't even imagine what it must feel like to have never been on the radar screen in the first place.

"So until you can, _don't you dare_ talk to me about reputation being more important than relationships."

Her words stymied the air like curtains and he let them hang there, waiting for them to waft away. Instead, they settled slowly on his shoulders like a yolk, cementing him in place as he grappled for words. But even as he fought to defend himself, the truth welled up in his throat and flung itself out of his mouth like a hairball. His voice surprised even himself, but he had a feeling a different voice was to blame. "You're right, Rach. There's absolutely no excuse for how I acted or what I said. Popularity is just a touchy subject with me, and I guess I jumped the gun a bit." They locked eyes again, and he took a step forward into the lights. "I'm really, truly sorry."

Rachel shook her head shortly as if surprised, her eyes wide as they peered up at his slowly advancing form. "I — why Finn, that's a very mature thing to say." He was halfway to center stage, and she had to angle her chin up to look into his face. "You sound very sincere and heartfelt. I therefore accept your apology. Mostly, I just wanted to be angry and vent, so your confession is a lovely bonus—"

"Great." His tone lilted lightly as he reached her position, towering over her from merely a foot away. He watched her involuntarily close her eyes as she breathed in his scent — generic soap and Pert Plus, he hoped, and not sweaty, stale boy — and his chest puffed a bit. Of their own accord, his fingers slung a lock of her hair behind her ear, and her eyes immediately snapped open and up to his. Those fingers lingered around her ear, tracing the staunch line of her jaw before falling to her neck and finally her collarbone, where they brushed back and forth in a motion hypnotizing to even him.

She was in the _bag_. Maybe they could just carry on as if she hadn't lied—

He felt more than saw her inhale to speak, and he headed her off. "Now that The Tool — I mean Jesse's gone, do you want to—"

A little noise of indignation bordering on self-reproach struggled from her throat as she stepped backwards, his hand falling to his side. "Finn! It's only been two hours and thirty-six minutes since my first real boyfriend broke up with me! I need time to process the heartbreak, grieve properly by going through all five stages, maybe even expand my repertoire by recording a couple of break-up songs. Then, and only then, will I consider how to move on from what my biographers will probably call the worst heartbreak of my young life."

Finn's stomach clenched, and red filled his vision as he subconsciously balled his fists. For real? She was going to make him wait because The Tool couldn't get over his ego trip? The voice, now tinged with an edge of sadistical malice, agreed with his annoyance and told him to find another tactic — now was the moment, and he had to strike if he ever wanted the truth. So he recovered the step Rachel had put between them and continued advancing, backing her towards stage right.

"As I was _going_ to say," he restarted, a half grin threatening his whole face, "since Jesse's out of the picture, do you have plans for dinner? I haven't eaten in over two hours, and I'm so starving, I could eat anything." He let his gaze wander over her body, settling eventually on her lips before she twitched and reddened in embarrassment. They both lurked in the darkness off stage right, now, and the shadow he cast over her widened her pupils—or was that desire? She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and to release the moment's tension, he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged nonchalantly. "You're probably hungry; I'm _definitely_ hungry. We both have to eat anyway; why not eat together? Are your dads expecting you?"

Despite the fact that he had backed off, she remained unbalanced, eyes flickering everywhere but his face. Her fingers twisted together, and she tilted her head to the side. "Well I was planning on ordering the new vegan veggie pizza Hungry Howie's is advertising: Dad's at a medical conference in Virginia this week, and Daddy went to surprise him for a long weekend. But I sort of wanted to be alone tonight. . . ."

"You can't eat a whole pizza by yourself," he argued, the genuine Finn trying to make a break for it. "I'd just be helping out. Y'know, starving kids in Africa and all that."

"What about your mom? Wouldn't she be worried?"

Rachel was stalling, and they both knew it. "She's having a date night with Burt at the Hummels'. Kurt's going to a movie with Mercedes, so don't feel like he'll be left out." He stamped down his exasperation and let out a full-fledged smile as a last resort. "Feed me? Please?"

Her hesitation barely lasted a second. "Okay!" she replied brightly, brushing past him to collect her belongings and the club's iPod dock. "I'll even pick off the veggies for you; I know how you don't like anything green."

His growling stomach drowned out the little voice's cry of triumph.

* * *

This was it: the final act. And what better setting than Rachel's _castle_ of a house. He thought it might have its own zip code. Though most every house felt gigantic compared to the two-bedroom, ranch-style Hudson abode. But still. There were _columns._

Rachel ushered him through the foyer (after how many visits, he still had no idea what that was, so he just kept walking) to the kitchen at the back of the house. His backpack and coat found its usual home on a chair in the 'breakfast nook,' and he leaned against the island while she puttered about, grabbing a take-out menu, a cordless phone, glasses, and a can of Coke. The menu found its way under his nose as she emptied the can into one of the glasses and slid that towards him as well. "See if there's anything else you want. I know you won't be happy with just vegan pizza, and Dad doesn't allow potato chips in the house. Daddy smuggled in some Coke last week, and we've been hiding it in the guest bathroom."

Thoughts of his plan flew out of his head as soon as he laid eyes on the mouth-watering pizza photographs in the menu.

They ate together like best friends: teasing, joking, laughing, avoiding what Rachel wanted to avoid and Finn wanted to prod. He wanted to fee her a breadstick, smear marinara sauce on her lips and kiss it off, sit with his arm around her shoulder or her feet in his lap. These decidedly un-platonic feelings conjured up Operation Truth (the simpler, the better, he had decided). As he chewed his sixth piece of pizza, and Rachel rose to refill her water, the voice tapped his brain and reminded him to focus on the climax (pun totally intended) of his plan. He needed to get her upstairs, in her bedroom, and almost naked to prove his point. "Almost" for two reasons: one, they needed to have this conversation before anything else happened, and two, if he saw a Rachel Berry boob, he would be a goner. This needed to be handled _right._

Over the empty pizza box, bags of breadsticks, and box of wings, they continued to talk with an air of freedom absent of late in their interactions. Just as Finn was starting to turn the conversation towards a reason to go upstairs ("Did I leave my English book here? I haven't seen it in so long, I can't remember what it looks like. . . ."), Rachel surprised him yet again by reading his mind.

"Do you want to come upstairs to help me film my weekly MySpace video? They used to be daily, but since Glee club started actually panning out, I didn't think it prudent to showcase my skills with a 'z' to the competition. But then I had to balance that concern against the very real probability that talent scouts pour over MySpace for fresh talent—"

He tuned out immediately after "upstairs."

Rachel led him up the well-known path to her bedroom, and as soon as she opened the door with the familiar gold star, Finn's palms began to sweat, and he rubbed them he hoped surreptitiously on his thighs. When she opened the door, his eyes immediately fell on the four post bed in the middle of the room: the one that would see more action tonight than it had ever seen when Jesse the Tool visited. That thought made other parts of his body sweat, and he didn't know all the places where sweat glands were located, but he was pretty sure his left ear was not one of them. His gaze shot to her attached bathroom. He could excuse himself to calm down, maybe quietly rub one out so he wouldn't accidentally celebrate too early. . . .

'_No. Man up, Hudson,'_ he told himself, giving a mental slap on the back. He didn't need the voice to tell him that. _'Jump in. It's time.'_

Rachel continued her monologue as she booted her computer and began setting up her tripod with sharp, practiced movements. With her back to him, she did not see him stalk up behind her. He settled his hands heavily on her shoulders, and she jumped, tried to turn around, but he kept her facing away. "What are you going to sing?" His voice, dropped at least an octave, rumbled in his chest, and the intimacy it implied made them both shiver.

Her head ducked and hands slowed before starting back up, and her hair brushed his hands as she slightly shook her head. "I-I have n-no idea." Again she tried to turn around, and again he thwarted her. "Maybe we could sing 'I'll Cover You.' We could use the practice, and I've never posted a duet before, and the MySpace talent scouts would probably love to see my range with a partner—"

"Cool," he interrupted, fingers inching towards the slope until he cupped her neck, thumbs wandering underneath her hair to brush the nape. Goosebumps rose under the pads of this thumbs, and he grinned. "Where do you want me?" She didn't move, and for a horrifying moment, he thought she was going to faint, but no, he heard her small, ragged breaths, and she didn't sway. He waited for a reply, but one did not seem forthcoming, so his hands slipped from her body, and he practically moonwalked to her bed behind them. He eased himself down and, lying on his side with one hand propping his head and the other draping over his stomach, willed Rachel to look at him. She wouldn't laugh at the cheesy pose and therefore ruin everything; he just knew it.

When Rachel did face him, her cheeks flamed, and her eyes remained trained on her carpet, and she seemed to shrink into herself again. "I don't think that position is very conducive to singing."

"Oh yeah? What's it 'conducive' to?" He pretended to know what that word meant.

"Seducing a stunning, young starlet in her very bedroom while her parents are out of town which, by the way, sinks to the same level of cliché as 'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him!'"

"Is it working?"

A pause. "Maybe." She glanced up, and her pupils widened, whether with desire or fear he couldn't tell. "A cliché always has a basis in truth." She slowly inched forward, and he abruptly sat up, nearly startling her into retreat, but he caught her around the waist before she could take so much as a step backward. Nullifying the height difference, he pulled her to stand between his legs, completely surrounding her shaking form.

Their eyes remained locked, and he saw her gulp. Both he and the voice rejoiced. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes, please."

And their mouths clashed like swords, sparks flying when lips, tongues, and even teeth dueled. He cradled her neck from the front this time, tracing her angled jaw with his thumbs as she melted, loosely fisting the fabric over his shoulders. His mouth slanted for a new angle, running his tongue along the inside of her bottom lip, and allowed his hands to roam. They made their way to her arms where his fingers lightly grazed her triceps, drawing her fists tighter into his shirt; then down her sides, barely allowing a hint of a graze to the sides of her breasts before dipping at her _effing tiny_ waist and finally cupping her hips. She groaned into his mouth and arched her back, pushing those breasts up towards full-on contact with his own chest, and when she pulled herself closer he mirrored her moan.

Somewhere, in the (very tiny) unoccupied portion of his mind, he thought, _'Just a little bit further. . . .'_

He never quite remembered how, but they both ended up in the middle of her bed with him hovering above her like a net. He remembered a tangle of limbs, the intention of being smooth, and a definite impression of mild embarrassment, but the result was so very worth it. She peered up at him with wide eyes and lips swollen with his kisses, and he attacked again, his left hand tangling in her hair while the right guided her own to his chest, down his abdomen, and onto the now-almost-painful bulge poorly concealed in his jeans.

She jumped and tried to retract her hand like she'd been burned, but he held firm, and she relaxed in his grip, finally molding around his arousal. He bucked and hissed in approval.

He flung off his shirt—almost suffocating himself in the process—and soon her sweater joined it, leaving her in a strappy shirt-thing through which he could see _her bra_.

The Rachel Berry Boob Vow was immediately questioned. But he powered through the haze of lust and menacingly eyed her skirt. He locked eyes with her underneath his brows, ready to savor her reaction, and then without warning, plunged a hand beneath both skirt and panties to cup her naked core.

Rachel squealed, clamped her thighs together (effectively trapping his hand), and scooted up the bed towards the headboard in one seamless movement, glaring at him like she were a deranged cat and he had stepped on her tail.

Caught.

"Ah-ha!" he cried, leaping from the bed and pointing at her splayed form with manic triumph in his eyes. The accusing finger shook. "Liar! You're a big fat liar!"

The deranged cat look intensified. "I have no idea of what you speak, Finn Hudson." Her breath came in uneven, rapid pants that would have been incredibly sexy if not for the fact that he had just caught her in a scandal of monumental proportions.

His own chest heaved, and he thought it would explode in the pure awesomeness of being _right_. He felt blood surging through every extremity (though he didn't know where it came from; his dick was still rock hard), and his entire being felt incredibly light. Subconsciously, he stood up straighter, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. "You, Miss Rachel Berry, did _not _have sex with Jesse St. James. You're still a virgin."

That word rang in the expanse between them, almost widening it. The deranged cat morphed into an angry tabby. She clutched at her chest, then clasped a pillow to it, hiding from his gaze. "And how do you figure that? You have no empirical evidence; we didn't even get that far. You're only guessing. You want me to stroke your ego, say, 'Oh Finn, you're so _huge_; I wonder if it will fit—'"

"Then how come you didn't walk funny, huh? And you guys weren't singing sappy love song show tunes in the hallways in between classes anymore? And the 'Run, Joey, Run' video? Come _on_, Rachel!"

"What? I have no earthly idea what you mean!"

His triumph was slowly deflating with his erection. Finn knew he was right, no doubt about that; but why did she insist on lying to him? "You wouldn't've cast all three of us in that video if you and Jesse were serious enough to have sex! So he didn't bang you, and you totally still have your v-card."

Now she dropped her gaze and curled her legs beneath her. "Why are you harping on this? What does it matter to you if Jesse and I made love or not?"

"It matters because you know that I care. You're trying to make me jealous when you know that I already want you so bad it hurts. And you lied _badly_ so I would figure it all out and rescue you."

"Rescue me? Did you ever think it could be to release you? Did it ever cross your bloated, ego-drenched mind that I wanted you to believe Jesse and I made love so that you would _stop_ pursuing me like a dog in heat? Well did you ever think of that?"

He didn't hesitate for a moment. "Then you _did_ lie! Admit it!"

"FINE!" she screamed, jumping up and dropping the pillow. Her eyes blazed and nostrils flared, and normally he would have taken a step back in fear of Storm-from-_X-Men_-like Rachel, but the adrenaline throbbing through his veins made him feel god-like. She tilted her chin upwards and squared her shoulders. "I lied, alright? I couldn't go through with it, and I didn't sleep with Jesse. I wouldn't even let him take off my caplet."

"Your what?"

"Never mind. While I didn't go through with it because maybe I still had irrational, unresolved feelings for you, I lied about it so that you would go away and leave me alone!" The anger leeched out of her tone, but the latter remained forcefully plaintive. "He was the first person outside of my relations to like me for who I am — _person_, not just boy. It felt even more wonderful than they say it does in songs! He held my hand, kissed me, even went out into public with me! He didn't care that I self-talk in song, or that I-I can't navigate social situations, or — I don't know, that I actually _like_ the way I dress. He was the first person to accept all of that-that baggage without telling me that I had to change."

"Probably 'cause he's a diva too—"

"And then you had to screw it all up!"

The anger was clearly back, and this time, he flinched. "What?"

"You, Finn! You wouldn't drop it! In the back of my mind, I kind of maybe figured that things would fall apart between Jesse and me, and I would go back to pining for you from afar, but did you ever think that maybe this is what _I_ needed? Even if it would never last? For once in my life, I needed to feel good about myself, and Jesse did that for me. He was mine. I don't think you adequately comprehend just how happy I was, even though I saw that it wouldn't last.

"But you swoop in, decide that in fact, no, I don't have the right to be happy, and try to sabotage everything."

"I never said I didn't want you to be happy—"

"But your actions did! You couldn't let me be happy without you, so you set out to ensure I wasn't happy with Jesse. You didn't care enough about me to let me make my own decisions and fall on my face. By being overprotective and smothering me, you showed me just how little you really respect me." She paused, probably waiting for some type of response, but Finn's brain, sluggish under normal circumstances, was still fighting to switch gears, make connections, and stamp down the odd flare-up of desire. Her face plummeted, and with it, the last vestiges of triumph and elation remaining in his system. She hugged herself. "Don't you get it? Yes, I lied because I wanted you to believe I was over our relationship, but I also did it to see if you cared enough about me to let me go. Evidently, you do not."

He got it. Oh boy, did he get it. Selfishness and jealousy — that c-word he could never remember but knew was one of the Ten Commandments — were traits that were inherent in popularity, and therefore always expected of him. His mom did a good job of instilling solid values into her son, but she never truly weeded those vices out of his character. No one had called him on it before because he was popular, they expected him to be an ass from time to time.

But not Rachel. She never took that crap from anyone, especially him. He felt her accusations seep like poison through his veins, killing forever his desire to see her squirm for her lie.

Oh God.

He knew why that voice and its phrases sounded so familiar.

_Puck._

He'd been friends with that rat bastard for so long, he had internalized his advice and confused it with his conscience. This whole time, he had been doing what Puck would have done.

His stomach dropped.

If she ever knew how he schemed and manipulated her to get to this point, she would never acknowledge his existence, let alone speak to him, ever again. But by the look on her face, he thought she knew or at least guessed his level of tool-ness. Before she stopped talking to him 'til the end of time, he had to let her know just how much he cared for — liked — loved her. Then she could do whatever she wanted, but she needed to know.

He unraveled her arms from around her waist and gently clasped her hands in his, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. Locking eyes with her, he willed the right words to come out of his mouth. "Rachel, I _do_ like you, so much that I think it may be something stronger. At first it didn't seem that way, but right after I slept with Santana, I realized that every other relationship, every other _girl_, can't even come close to how . . . awesome . . . you . . . are. . . ." he finished lamely. If possible, her face and posture had fallen even further, and she reclaimed her hands. Finn backtracked, trying to remember what he'd said. "Slept with Santana," he repeated. "Oh shit! Rachel, I—"

She didn't say a word; just held her hand up, palm toward him. She didn't meet his gaze, but he could see the tiniest self-deprecating smile despite her ducked head, and he grimaced but knew to hold his tongue.

"Frailty, they name is man," she whispered. He shook his head, not understanding, and she repeated his action with that same smile of disbelief. "This type of hypocrisy is not surprising, what with the culture of double standards, blasé betrayal, and commitment-phobia in which we live. I'm only surprised that you would partake in that culture. No, wait, I'm not surprised; one should never underestimate the role popularity plays in all your decisions. I just thought you were better than that."

He would much rather have scary Storm-Rachel than this quiet one: her softness and complete vulnerability invaded every sense, and he could practically see her folding in on herself, a wounded animal at once licking its wounds and preparing itself for more blows. Quiet Rachel made him feel worse than Hitler, and it made him feel his guilt one hundred fold deeper.

"I . . . It didn't—"

"Don't say it didn't mean anything, because I don't care about that. In fact, I would feel less like road kill if it _had_ meant something."

"Rach, I—"

"Let's put aside the fact that you spent how long trying to get me to admit my lie while totally neglecting the fact that you did the same thing," she continued, her tone still low but firm, like she was in the process of gluing herself back together because no one else could help her, but it must be done. "Let's focus on the fact that you just spent how long trying to convince me that you're the better choice, that you _really do care_ while ignoring the fact that you did . . . _that_ with Santana just to, what, spite me? I—" Her lips snapped shut and turned white with the forced used to hold them together. Her eyes darted like a caged animal's searching for a way out, and her arms hugged her middle again. "You better leave," she whispered, nodding vaguely at the door.

Finn balked. Like in baseball. He went in two directions at once and ended up looking rather stupid. He wanted to run far, far away where his mouth wasn't in range of Rachel's ear and could do no more damage; he needed to stay right where he was and make this right. "Look, if it meant nothing—"

"Oh, it meant something, alright." She snorted: such an unlikely sound that he jumped about a mile. "It means that you only like me when I'm unavailable. You kiss me twice when you're with Quinn; but when you two break up, you need more options and therefore have no use for me; but the moment I get a boyfriend, you try to seduce me away from him. God, I'm so stupid. Why didn't I see it before?

"You don't want _me_; you just want what you can't have."

She sniffed violently, but she turned away before he could see anything. He reached for her shoulder, but she jumped like his touch burned, and he recoiled, more hurt in that one action than he had ever been before.

"Get out."

No, no; he needed to save this. The ship was sinking, but he wasn't going down without trying to bail it out. Big guns, big guns — where were they? "Rach, I love—"

"I've asked you twice; do I need to do it again?" she choked out, voice drowning in suppressed sobs even as her shoulders shook.

Finn nodded. "Yes, I need to hear it."

"_Leave."_

He felt a knot in his throat, and though he tried to swallow, it painfully obstructed his windpipe. He loped towards the stairs but paused in the doorway. "I won't stop fighting for us, Rachel. I won't stop trying to prove myself."

"You keep saying that, and I keep wondering when it's going to happen."

Finn heard her sobs even on the front porch.

* * *

Finn went home and threw out every single spy video he owned, burned his planning notebook: he didn't want anyone to know. His mom must have thought he'd finally lost it, though, because the next morning, all the DVDs were back on the shelf, and she asked why the backyard smelled funny. He shrugged and stabbed at his cereal.

* * *

School was surprisingly unchanged. He thought the world would look different, twenty shades of grey instead of Technicolor, but everyone seemed normal. No sinkhole where the auditorium used to be; no police tape over the choir room door. So he waited for Rachel, waited to see if the lights dimmed after she sent her first scowl his way.

But no overt hatred; no diva song fits.

Just silence. And smallness.

Whenever she glanced at him, her eyes seemed muted, filtered, and her pizzazz seemed dulled. When Mr. Schue set them a new assignment during their free period meeting on Monday, she didn't even have a song prepared for a demonstration.

Finn had broken her. He had manipulated her, molded her to his plans, and then burned them both.

And, staring down at her from the back row of the choir room, he promised he'd be the one to make them whole. Together. This time without hoops or plans or lies. And a better operation title. Something like . . . Operation Happily Ever After.

Ah, well. He had time. He wanted to do it _right_ this time.

_**END**_

* * *

I promise I'm not an entirely morose person! In the words of my former professor and advisor, I go to the daffodil fields at the arboretum and just scream with laughter. As always, I welcome constructive criticism! However, if you make the (wrong) decision to flame, they will be used to make s'mores and other tasty treats for those who follow the rules. Hope you enjoyed!

:D Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life


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